Chapter 5

These horns were from six to eight inches long, black and shiny, slender and round, rising from the forehead perpendicularly, and curving sharply at the extremities into hooks. Very proud Chaffer was of them, for they meant; so much to him. They meant, for one thing, that he was now almost full grown, and that he would soon be of an age to take his place in the antelope world as a champion and fighter. He could hold his own now with some of the males, and, although he had just been driven out of the herd, several others had been forced out with him, so he did not trouble himself much about it.

The only thing he was puzzled about was what he should do next, but this little matter was decided for him in a manner he never dreamed of. He was some way from the herd now, but at that moment he heard the well-known whistle of the sentinel chamois.[Footnote: Each herd has a chamois who acts as a sentinel. At the slightest sign of danger this sentinel gives a peculiar whistle, not particularly shrill or piercing, but which has a curious, penetrating power and carries a great distance. Not only does this sentinel give warning of danger, but he indicates from which direction it is coming.--_Author._] In an instant Chaffer was off, leaping over wide chasms, climbing over crags and dizzy heights, sliding down dangerous, slippery places, but always going in the opposite direction to the approaching enemy.

For Chaffer knew now what the danger was--it was a man; and he could, with his wonderful power of scent, smell him, although he was still a great distance away. Once having realized that it was a man, Chaffer lost no time, but made his way at once up the steepest crag he could find. It was much easier for him to go up than down, for his legs were adapted for this purpose, The hind ones being much longer than the front ones.

His small, neat feet were formed for climbing; his forefeet had very sharp hoofs, which, when descending, Chaffer would dig into the ground to gain a foothold, and his hind feet had curious, false hoofs. That is to say, the outer hoofs were higher than the soles, and this enabled him to have a grip on the slightest notch or projection on the face of the rocks, so that it was almost impossible for him to slip. In descending the rocks, he would place his forefeet close together and push them in front of him; he could then slide down the face of an almost perpendicular cliff with the greatest ease and safety, and alight at the bottom without so much as a scratch.

In going up a very steep hill, he would stand up on his hind legs, put his forefeet on some narrow shelf or ledge of rock, and then, with a sharp little bound, draw his body up, and stand with all four feet on a space scarcely big enough for a full-grown man.

Chaffer tried this plan now, and with good effect for a time, but he could smell the man coming nearer and nearer, and began to be terribly frightened. Timid and nervous to a wonderful degree, and of a cautious, suspicious nature, Chaffer's excitement grew intense, and his small, pointed ears quivered painfully. On he went, never stopping to glance round for a single instant, for it was not necessary; he knew only too well what was behind him, and his one object was to get away.

At this moment, however, there was another whistle from the sentinel of the herd, much fainter this time because farther off, but containing the information that there was danger at the top of the mountains as well as at the base. Chaffer hesitated a moment, but he decided to go on now, whatever came; he was far more at home on these sharp crags and dangerous heights than he was on smooth, even ground, and he could go where it was quite impossible for a man to follow.

So he gave a few more leaps, a few more bounds, although the scent of the man now was so strong as to bewilder him, and then landed on a tiny ledge face to face with a hunter!

It would have been hard to say which was the most surprised--the hunter or Chaffer. As a matter of fact, the hunter had been carefully watching another chamois a little lower down--a young male who had been turned out of the herd with Chaffer--and had no idea a second chamois was so close to him until Chaffer alighted on the ledge of rock at his very feet. The two looked at one another for an instant in deathlike silence, their eyes wide open with surprise and fright; for, had the chamois only known it, he could, with one touch of his horns, have sent the hunter whirling through space and onto the rocks beneath, where he would have been dashed to pieces.

Then, with a wild leap, Chaffer sprang--sprang down the precipitous chasm which yawned beneath them, a distance of nearly thirty feet. As he went down, with his graceful body hanging in the air, and his handsome head, with its curved horns, thrown back, he turned himself diagonally, striking his feet sharply every now and then against the face of the rock in his descent, and alighted at the foot in perfect safety.

Meanwhile, the hunter, although he was a hardy Swiss mountaineer, was so frightened at his narrow escape that he gave up the chase for that day and went home, followed by the other hunters. They had been out on this expedition four days already, and had faced great dangers without getting a single chamois. They were brave and patient men, and as they earned their living by chamois hunting--one of the most dangerous and precarious ways of earning a living--had been ready and prepared for a certain amount of risk. But four days in the mountains, with nothing but dried meat for food, added to the intense cold and exposure, not to speak of risking their lives several times a day, was about as much as any man could stand, so, when Chaffer and his companions got away, the hunters decided to go home and hunt them another time.

But the chamois were also frightened, and more nervous and timid than usual for some time after this, and kept a sharp lookout themselves, not trusting so much to the sentinel, for they considered he had not given them warning enough the last time.

Chaffer had been so thoroughly scared that he kept himself hidden in chasms and crevices for days, only coming out every now and then to feed and to give a hurried glance round. Food was getting scarce now, too, and he would very soon have to go without the fresh grass and herbage which grew on the mountains, and make the buds of the pine, fir and juniper trees do instead. But he could treat himself to an occasional bit of salt from the sandstone rocks which are to be found in the Alps, and of this he was extremely fond; it also helped to keep him in good health.

It was a hard winter that year, and when the snow lay thick and white not only on the mountains, but in the valleys, Chaffer had as much as he could do to find enough to eat. Occasionally he would be able to scrape away the snow, and get tiny bits of grass and other green stuff, but it was not enough to keep him alive, and he was obliged to content himself with the buds of trees and any little bit of vegetation he could find.

He did not mind the cold in the least, for he often stayed on the snow-clad heights in summer from preference; but when this winter had really set in, with its exceptional severity, Chaffer betook himself to the wooded land which lay just below the glaciers, and roamed about there until spring once more appeared. But he did not care for wooded districts; he preferred peaks and ravines which had a northern aspect. So, as soon as he possibly could, he left the low lands and once more climbed his beloved mountains.

The cold was still intense, but underneath his ordinary covering of hair Chaffer had another coat of short, thick, greyish wool, and this protected him, and kept him nice and warm. His outer coat had changed during the winter from a golden brown to a dark chestnut, and, as the spring advanced, it changed again to a pretty, light color, which was almost grey.

Chaffer never forgot the first spring day after that awful winter, when the snow, having melted from some of the mountain ranges, disclosed fresh young grass and tender herbage. How delicious it was, and how Chaffer enjoyed it! He had grown quite thin and gaunt, his finely formed muscular neck was lean and scraggy, and his limbs felt weak.

But a week or two of good feeding, with an occasional bit of salt, soon put him right, and by the time summer arrived Chaffer had not only regained the strength he had lost in the winter, but had developed more power and growth in many ways. He had rejoined the herd, for the old chamois had left it by this time, and Chaffer and some other young males had determined that, come what might, they would allow no old chamois to turn them out again.

It was a beautiful summer, and the herd, which numbered about twenty, had a fine time. They sported and leaped from crag to crag--climbed up to the highest and most inaccessible peaks, where they would stand sniffing the clear air, and look out with their beautiful eyes over the picturesque landscape which lay like a vast panorama before them-- glide down the chasms and precipices, and take leaps and bounds which would have made almost any animal but a chamois giddy.

And, during that summer, Chaffer grew fat and sleek and handsomer than ever, and by the time October came again was the largest animal in the herd. Only the year before he had been wretched and miserable and very lonely; now he was settled and contented and very happy, for, not only had he refused to allow the old chamois to enter the herd again, but he had chosen a pretty and graceful little wife, and was just as proud of her as he could be.

She was a beautiful creature, and her dark, liquid eyes looked timidly and pathetically out from beneath her nicely developed horns--for both male and female chamois have these appendages--while every movement of her delicately formed body was full of grace. It was no wonder Chaffer was proud of her, and when she presented him later on with a fine little kid, he was prouder than ever.

The baby chamois was a pretty little creature, and quick and active to a remarkable degree. But she had also inherited her parents' sensitiveness and timidity, and never left her mother's side; where the mother chamois went, there the little one followed closely, and when a chasm or ravine was too wide to cross with a leap of her small body, the mother made a bridge of her own body by throwing herself across, with feet planted firmly on either side of the chasm, and on it the little one sprang lightly and gracefully over in safety.

Chaffer was not always with them; he had a good many other things to attend to, but he kept careful and watchful guard over them, and his keen senses of sight and hearing were always on the alert for danger.

One fine day in the following spring, when the kid was growing big and strong, the herd had collected on a favorite feeding-ground, and was browsing in calm enjoyment. Suddenly the sentinel lifted his head, and, stamping his fore feet on the ground, gave the whistle of warning.

The chamois were on the alert in an instant, and, scenting danger to windward, flew wildly in the opposite direction. As a rule, they were able to escape, but this time they had been trapped, for the same hunters, who had tried in vain so many times to catch them, had formed a circle round them now, and had narrowed it until they were close to their prey.

Chaffer leaped and bounded, followed by his wife and little one, and was one of the very first to leave the feeding-ground behind; but he was also the first to meet the hunters face to face--not at such close quarters as at that memorable time when he had sprang on the same ledge with the hunter, but just close enough for those hunters to take a good, steady aim at him.

There was a loud report--another--and another, and Chaffer, stunned and bewildered, found himself lying at full length on the ground, while a horrible pain in his body made him feel sick and faint. In vain he lifted his head, and tried to raise himself; his head sank slowly down again on the soft grass, and his body would not move. He kept his eyes fixed on the hunters, who crowded round eagerly, but a misty veil floated in front of them, and everything looked blurred and dim. He made one more brave effort, and, with a spasmodic jerk, half lifted his body; but the exertion made the stream of blood, which was oozing out of his side, spurt out in quick, sharp rushes, and with a pathetic sigh and a convulsive movement of the beautiful form, which had been so full of life and activity only a few short minutes before, Chaffer let his handsome head fall back for the last time, and died.

The hunters, seeing he was dead, directed their attention to the mother chamois and her little one. The little chamois was on the ground, quite dead, and the mother was standing over her beloved one, her feet on either side of the poor little carcass, dyed a deep red with the blood of her offspring. During Chaffer's life, his wife had left it to him to defend her, but, deprived of his help, and bereft of her little one, she stood at bay--no longer the gentle, timid chamois, but an indignant, furious animal, ready to defend her kid with her life.

Not being sure whether the baby chamois was dead or not, the hunters tried to make the mother leave the small body, but in vain. Not only did she stamp her feet in defiance, but butted at them with her horns in a savage manner that surprised them. At last there was nothing to do but to shoot her, for they could not waste time, and the skin of a very young chamois was exceedingly valuable.

So, as she stood there, reckless and daring, and absolutely fearless through her motherhood, there was a quick flash, another report, and the mother chamois, the pretty wife of Chaffer, of whom he had been so proud, dropped over the body of her baby and mingled her blood with his. She died quicker than Chaffer, and she did not look at her murderers as he had done, but kept her eyes fixed on her little one, and her last movement was made towards it.

So Chaffer, his wife and little one all died on the same day, and in the same manner, and even the hunters, rough and hardy mountaineers as they were, had an uncomfortable feeling whenever they thought of the brave death of the mother, and her pathetic defense of her little one.

But they were hunters, and it was their living, and so in due course of time Chaffer's fine pair of horns were sold, the skin of his wife was turned into soft, yellow leather, and the skin of his little one was made into gloves.

JINKS, THE JACKAL

Jinks lay at his master's feet, his forepaws stretched out in front of him, and his sharp-pointed, black nose nestling comfortably on them. To all appearance he was asleep; but every now and then his sharp, bright eyes would open, and glance swiftly round in all directions, so swiftly that it was hard to realize he had opened them at all.

It was an exceptionally hot morning, even for India, and Jinks' master stopped reading, to sigh with the heat and wipe his streaming face. Jinks was only too glad of an interruption; he had been still quite long enough, and, in his restless, fidgety way, wanted to be doing something. So, as his master yawned, sighed and fluttered his silk handkerchief, Jinks rose up, stretched himself luxuriously, and, following his master's example, yawned too.

He was a fine-looking animal as he stood up and wagged his bushy, fox- like tail, and his master was struck, for the first time, with his handsome appearance and size. For he had known Jinks from a tiny baby, having carried him home in his arms after he had found him with his dead mother, and fed him warm bread and milk, getting in return many a nasty bite from the vixenish little animal, who had all the viciousness of his race.

But, in due course of time, what with repeated kindnesses and tender care, Jinks had grown not only tame, but quite gentle, and was now extremely fond of his master, and never happy unless with him. His master returned his affection warmly, and the two were close companions; went out for long walks together, when it was not too hot; had their meals together, and would have shared the same room in the bungalow, had it not been that Jinks had a most unpleasant smell at times, which civilization could not dispel, and which made it quite impossible for him to be kept indoors at night. Indeed, there were times when this unpleasant odor was so manifest in the daytime, that Jinks was sent to his kennel in disgrace.

He always felt the disgrace keenly, and, although he invariably went at once when he was told, he did so under protest, with his bushy tail and dog-like head held down in a shamefaced manner, and a peculiar gleam in his eyes which spoke not only of shame, but of anger, only kept under through force of discipline. For his master, understanding his nature, had never allowed Jinks for one moment to get the better of him or disobey him in the smallest thing, and Jinks knew too well how a certain small dog-whip felt to wish for any more of it. He had been a pup up to this time, and just as full of wickedness and mischief as he could be.

The occupants of the bungalow had gone through the same experiences-- somewhat worse, perhaps--as most people have who bring up a puppy by hand, and had not only found all kinds of small garments strewed about indiscriminately, dragged out and pulled to pieces, but had at times lost articles altogether. Occasionally, a few particles would be found in Jinks' kennel, but Jinks never appeared to know anything about them, and, in answer to their accusations and scoldings, only put on a quizzical, enquiring air, as though he really had not the least idea what they were talking about. Even when caught in the very act, he would pretend not to know what was meant; but when the dog-whip came across his back he would give such an appalling howl that his chastisers would stop for very terror, lest he should wake up the rest of his kind in the neighborhood.

Jinks did not know there were any of his own kind in the neighborhood. As a matter of fact, he had never thought about himself at all, but, having all he wanted in the shape of food and sport, had made himself quite content and even happy. As he grew from babyhood he got more mischievious still, and gave no end of trouble by eating and destroying nearly all the grapes on the vines, and fruit on the trees and bushes.

Then, one night he had a beautiful time. His master had tied him to his kennel, as usual, and left him for the night, and Jinks was just settling down to sleep, when he suddenly heard a rustling overhead in the tall bushes. The rustling was caused by a silly chicken, who, in some way or other, had lost its way, and was now so extremely unwise as to go to roost over the head of a young jackal.

Jinks had never tasted chicken, great care having been taken about this for many reasons; but, somehow, as soon as he found out what was roosting just above him, he had an irresistible desire to get that chicken and see how he tasted. Unfortunately, he was tied up, and his master never allowed him a long rope; but Jinks, having once made up his mind, was not going to allow a rope to stop him.

He therefore set to work in the most determined manner to break it, stretching himself away from his kennel with all his might, but so noiselessly--for he had all the cunning of his kind--that even the chicken, who was uneasy and restless, heard not a sound. But, strain and tug as he would, Jinks could not break the rope, for it was a strong one, and, although he possessed good muscles and sinews, and pressed every nerve into service, there was only a funny little squeak caused by the strands of the rope rubbing together, and there it ended.

Jinks sat down for a few moments on his haunches to think it over. He had no intention of giving up, and, although he had not the slightest idea of the flavor of chicken, he felt that the time had come when he must have it, come what might. So he set his clever brain to work, while his keen, crafty eyes glanced in all directions, but never lost sight of the chicken for a single instant.

He had lost his domesticated look for the time being; and as he sat there, with his bright eyes gleaming, his rough tongue hanging out of his open mouth, and an expectant look on his furry, oval face, he looked just what he was--a strong and healthy young jackal.

Suddenly he thought of something, and without an instant's hesitation lay down to carry out his idea. Taking the rope in his strong white teeth, he gradually, in a silent, stealthy manner, began to gnaw the strands one by one. Now and then he would stop just for a moment to moisten his lips and to make sure that the chicken was still there; then he would continue the gnawing as before. When he got to the last strand, what his strong, powerful teeth had nearly accomplished, his rough, coarse tongue finished, for it was covered with thorn-like protuberances capable of scraping the flesh off an ox.

There was a little snap, and Jinks was free. He had never wished to be free before, but the chicken had given him his wish for freedom, and he meant to have the chicken. With one swift spring he caught the bird, and in another moment his teeth were buried in its breast and back, and the unfortunate straggler from the home roost was giving his last cry, choked in its infancy by another grip from Jinks' mouth.

Jinks took the dainty morsel inside his kennel; for, now he had caught the chicken, he had a guilty feeling, and, moreover, he wanted to enjoy it in peace and privacy. And, oh, how he did enjoy it! Never in all his life had he tasted anything so delicious--it was so young, and juicy, and tender, and the flavor of it! He was obliged to stop every now and then to lick his lips and relish it to the utmost, for he would not have missed an atom of the pleasure for the world.

He ate the whole thing--flesh and bones and even the entrails: he also ate a few feathers, which he did not particularly care about; but it was impossible to get the delicious food without, and so he did not care much. By the time he had finished, the only remains of the chicken were the feathers, which floated about as though seeking for their lost home.

By morning Jinks had removed every trace of his night's doings but the broken rope and the feathers. He had licked every tiny spot of blood off his mouth and coat, but he could not tie himself up again, and he could not get rid of the feathers, although he had made several clever attempts. He had tried to catch them with his mouth and paws, but they had evaded him in the most wonderful manner, and had maddened him at times by floating round him, and even alighting on his very nose, as if to taunt him. In vain he slapped his nose sharply with his paw each time he felt that nasty, irritating, tickling sensation. He always gave his nose a hard knock, while the feathers went floating gaily off as before. He gave it up at last, and lay down in his kennel with a meek expression on his face, but a guilty look in his eyes.

It was the custom for one of the servants to untie Jinks in the morning, so that he could go at once to his master. Occasionally his master would come and set him loose himself, and take him for a morning walk before it got too hot, so that whoever found Jinks had been untied naturally concluded the other had done it.

So it was on this particular morning. Jinks, after lying in his kennel for some time with his meek expression, suddenly remembered this, and so resolved to go into the house as though he had just been untied. He had cunning enough, however, to wait until he heard the servants moving about, and then he got up slowly, and, with his usual bright, wide-awake air, made his way into the house and to his master.